


this feeling (four times marianne can’t say no to héloïse & the one time héloïse can’t say no to marianne)

by nutmeg101



Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:22:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23775295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutmeg101/pseuds/nutmeg101
Summary: alternatively: modern au of the one time that they sort of not-so-accidentally quarantine togetheri’ve been having me a real hard timebut it feels so nice to know i’m gonna be alright+It takes just one minute for Marianne to notice the blonde woman across the room.Even through the crowd, she can see the way the sun rays cascade through the skylight in the ceiling painting her skin soft and fair, while her eyes sparkle brilliantly like jades. Her hair is pulled back into a low and tidy bun with short haphazard ends that bounce when she moves.She’s staring at one of the paintings on the wall. Her gaze is pointed, sad almost and Marianne finds herself staring for too long. But before she can turn away, the woman seems to notice her just as quickly. Her gaze shifts and settles directly onto Marianne. It’s full of fire and it pierces right through her and suddenly her heart is beating in her throat.
Relationships: Héloïse & Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire), Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 279





	this feeling (four times marianne can’t say no to héloïse & the one time héloïse can’t say no to marianne)

**Author's Note:**

> I can't even begin to tell you how hard this was to write lmao. Of all the fics I've ever written, this one was the most difficult. But anyways, I hope you enjoy it and that it brings some sort of light to your life during this shitty ass time the world is going through. 
> 
> (Apologies in advance for inevitable grammatical errors, I did my best to proofread endlessly but the more I look at it the more crosseyed I get and I forget how to read so I'm sure I've missed a few lol.)

**_i._ **

It takes just one minute for Marianne to notice the blonde woman across the room. 

Even through the crowd, she can see the way the sun rays cascade through the skylight in the ceiling painting her skin soft and fair, while her eyes sparkle brilliantly like jades. Her hair is pulled back into a low and tidy bun with short haphazard ends that bounce when she moves. 

She’s staring at one of the paintings on the wall. Her gaze is pointed, sad almost and Marianne finds herself staring for too long. But before she can turn away, the woman seems to notice her just as quickly. Her gaze shifts and settles directly onto Marianne. It’s full of fire and it pierces right through her and suddenly her heart is beating in her throat. 

Marianne turns away all too quickly and feigns interest in the painting in front of her. She’s hoping the crowd will her cloak her in anonymity, or better yet maybe the ground will open up and just swallow her whole. She vacantly reads the plaque posted beneath the painting but right now the words have no meaning. Her neck tingles while she works herself up to turn around. When she does, she’s nothing short of amazed to find that the woman is still looking at her. Less intently now, more so cautiously and with intrigue camouflaged in fleeting glances. 

Marianne doesn’t move from where she is. Her feet feel anchored to the floor.

She regards the woman in a similar fashion, eyes nervously flickering back and forth from the programme in her hands. She watches the way she moves; the way that her jacket which looks like cape sways and gives her the illusion as if she’s floating across the floor. She watches the way she tucks the stray strands of hair that have fallen out of her bun behind her ears, and the way with which she holds her hands together with poise. And even from as far away as she is, Marianne can see the way her jaw tenses every time their eyes meet. 

She watches until they slowly start to lose each other in the crowd.

Eventually she disappears completely. Marianne sighs, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. It’s partly out of relief, but something about how exposed she had felt makes her feel alive. She would be lying to say that she isn’t intrigued.

Who _is_ this woman?

Marianne idly makes it through two more exhibits and onto her third and final one before landing herself in front of one very specific piece of art. She always saves this one for last. It’s a portrait of _Orpheus and Eurydice._ She stares at it with fondness and a heavy heart because it reminds her of her father; it was one of his favourites and she’s lost count of the number of times they’ve stood in this exact spot. She stares and stares until she feels the heaviness go away; until she feels a presence sidle up to her. At first, she pays no mind to it, eyes cast forward. 

Suddenly there’s a voice.

“I suppose looks really can kill.”

Marianne spins on her heels and standing right next to her is the woman. She tries for words but nothing comes. Her throat turns dry like sandpaper and her heart starts to beat a little bit faster. 

The woman is breathtaking. 

From this close, Marianne can see that her eyes are more than just green. They burst with honey and hazel, and have a life of their own.

They’re like galaxies and Marianne is lost in space.

“Orpheus,” the woman says, glancing at the painting and then back to Marianne, reeling her back in. “His biggest fault was that he loved his wife too much. He couldn’t resist looking back at her.”

Finally Marianne is able to gather herself. In all of the times she has visited this museum, no one has ever stopped to speak to her about a painting before; and this particular one at that.

“Perhaps he makes a choice,” she says.

The woman quirks an eyebrow, silently urging her to go on.

“He chooses the memory of her. That’s why he turns. He doesn’t make the lover’s choice, but the poet’s.”

The woman nods ever so slightly, but her face is entirely unreadable.

“Perhaps _she_ was the one who said _‘turn around.’_ ” 

Marianne knows the tale well, she had read it with her father many times, but she had never once thought of it from that perspective. It’s new and it throws her, especially coming from a stranger. She rubs her index and middle finger against her forehead and when she looks at the woman again, there is the smallest trace of a smile on her lips.

“I’ve never seen someone admire this painting quite like the way you just did,” the woman says.

The admission that she had been observed makes Marianne’s ears burn red. She wonders how long she had been watched.

“You must know it well, then,” Marianne states.

“I’m familiar. It must be important to you?”

“You could say that.”

The woman’s face is still relatively stoic, although the shadow of a smile still remains. She regards Marianne in a way that almost makes her feel naked.

“Héloïse,” the woman says offering an open hand. Her expression finally grows more cordial and Marianne feels a sense of a relief wash over her. She can’t quite help her smile now that she can actually place a name to her face.

“ _Héloïse,_ ” she repeats softly to herself. She likes that, the way it starts softly in the back of her throat and then delicately rolls off the tip of her tongue. “Marianne,” she replies, reaching for her hand. They shake and Marianne’s head swims at how soft her skin is.

After a brief and almost tangible silence, Héloïse speaks.

“Alone at the museum on a Wednesday morning? Interesting choice.” There’s something playful in her voice.

“I could say the same for you.”

“What brings you here?”

Marianne thinks. The truth is that she comes here when she starts to miss her father and wants to feel close to him again, and that ever since he’s passed, she can barely pick up a paintbrush anymore. It feels like everything is crumbling around her and this is the only place that brings her some sort of solace. 

“I come here when I start to lose myself,” is what she says instead. It’s candid, as if Héloïse should know exactly what she means. “And less crowds.”

Héloïse nods as if she _does_ know exactly what she means.

“And you?” Marianne asks.

“To be honest, I feel quite lost here. The museums in Milan are not quite as elaborate as the ones here in Paris.”

Marianne grins pleasantly surprised. She loves Milan. 

“You’ve been to Milan?”

“I used to live there. Still do, sort of. And yourself, you’ve been?”

Marianne nods. She tucks her hands into her pockets, hardly one to feel intimated by most people considering that half of her job is to stare at people and paint them, but right now she feels timid.

“Well it seems you found me quite easily,” she quips.

“It seems you’re right. Perhaps you would care to enlighten me on more this artwork? If you have the time?”

Marianne’s face shades a deep red and she feels the way her eyebrows involuntarily quirk up. She feels crazy for thinking that Héloïse could actually be flirting with her.

She may have the time, but she still doesn’t know who this woman is. And besides, she should to return to her studio before people start to wonder where she is. She’s halfway to offering a rain-check, but there’s just _something_ about the way Héloïse is looking her; the way that her eyes gleam with mystery.

“Sure,” Marianne says quickly before she can continue to try and talk herself out of it. “I would love to.”

One extra hour turns into three, which turns into Marianne not actually making it into work. It turns into them standing at the top of the stairs of the metro station as dusk begins to fall as Héloïse enters her number into Marianne’s phone saying, “if you would ever like to do that again, let me know.”

All of which to say, Marianne is completely smitten.  
  


**_ii._ **

No one tells Marianne just how easy it is to become rapt with someone.

She should know, really, but she can’t actually remember the last time she’s felt this way, if at all. 

One week—that’s as long as she has known Héloïse and already her thought are consumed by her. It both terrifies and astounds her to know that someone could walk into her life so easily and make her feel like she’s learning herself all over again; as if after all these months of not being able to even look at a paintbrush or canvas, she has finally started painting again. 

And yet, as she’s absently watering the tulips in her apartment, she feels herself trapped in two different worlds. 

In one world, she feels like like’s floating in some ignorantly blissful daze because she can’t stop thinking about Héloïse. In the other world, she is missing her father more than usual, perhaps because the one year anniversary of his death is approaching. She wakes every morning with a heaviness in her heart and the weight of the world on her shoulders.

She’s knows it’s crazy and that she’s being unfair to herself, but it makes her feel guilty because the two sentiments completely oppose each other and she doesn’t know how to find the right balance.

When it all becomes too much, Marianne decides it’s time to open a bottle of wine. It’s red which is one of her simple pleasures. She loves everything from that distinctive sound of a bottle being uncorked, to the way the tannins make her nose tingle, and the way it stains her lips purple and sweet. She usually enjoys at least a glass or two most nights and tonight will be no different.

Her main hope is that it will help her to relax more and think about something else. And to be quite frank, if she has to hear or read the word _pandemic_ on the news one more time, she might lose it. So she grabs a glass from her kitchen cabinet, fills it generously, and takes it with her to the balcony.

It’s the middle of spring, but it’s warmer than usual tonight and the moon shines bright and white so Marianne also takes her sketch pad and makes herself comfortable on her wicker chair. She swirls her wine around watching the way the legs paint in the inside of her glass before taking a sip. She closes her eyes. Breathes. Below her, the sounds of live violins croon from one of the restaurants and the smell of freshly baked bread from a nearby bakery wafts through the air. She takes a deep breath, savouring the smell.

Slowly, she starts to sketch freely. She doesn’t allow herself to think too much, solely focusing on the movement of her hand and the sound the pencil makes as it scrapes the paper. She’s about a third of way through when she stops and realizes something. 

She’s drawing Héloïse. 

Marianne stares at the page incredulously, even scoffs at herself. _Really?_ She closes the sketchpad, but just as quickly reopens it. She stares the page once more, ironically wondering just how much of her essence she’d managed to capture, before shutting her eyes tightly and slouching back into her seat. 

She doesn’t even know what this is between them. For all she knows it’s just a friendship. Her worst fear is that it’s nothing, that she’s built up an elaborate fantasy in her head to forget about the fact that she feels so trapped and lost.

When she really thinks about it, she knows nothing about Héloïse, at least not on a personal level. The only thing she really knows is that she is no longer with her husband, something she had deduced on her own when she had noticed the vacant tan line on her ring finger, although Héloïse did confirm when she had caught Marianne staring at her hand for too long. And because of that, Marianne learns that the life of a politician’s wife is not something Héloïse ever wants to return to. There is too much greed, dishonesty, and patriarchy involved, she had said with her eyes full of sadness and anger.

But furthermore, Héloïse is an enigma. 

She has managed to hold Marianne at a frustrating arm’s length. It’s not for lack of trying on Marianne’s part, but anytime things being to open up, Héloïse shuts down and completely closes herself off. It’s hard for Marianne to comprehend given just how much in this short amount of time they have grown so fond of each other. They stay up late FaceTiming or just talking on the phone, and already three times this week, they find themselves seeking each other’s company at unusual times throughout the day. Usually on Marianne’s lunch break and one time when Héloïse had simply decided she was bored. 

At the same time, Marianne tries to not be bothered by this _because_ it’s been such a short amount of time.

The phone ringing from the kitchen pulls her back into reality. She walks back inside with her wine and might already know who it is, but she’s certain that her heart will never not leap into her throat when she sees Héloïse’s name light up the screen.

“Héloïse,” Marianne smiles into the phone. “I was just thinking of you.” 

She leans one shoulder against her fridge feeling the way it hums and rumbles while she cradles her glass of wine against her chest.

“Do you often think of me late at night?” Héloïse says, her voice low and smug. It’s a side of her that Marianne hasn’t experienced much, but it doesn’t stop her from blushing so hard she thinks she might actually pass out.

For a long while they talk about nothing in particular. Just current events and what they did today. Marianne walks in small aimless circles around her apartment, not realizing that she’s been grinning the whole time. 

“You left your book in my car yesterday,” Héloïse says in between Marianne telling her about her favourite places to go in Paris.

“Keep it,” Marianne tells her. “I’ve read it enough times.”

Eventually, when the conversation starts to die down, Héloïse’s tone gets more serious.

“I have to return to Milan next week,” she utters hastily, as if an afterthought.

Marianne stops in her tracks and heart drops into her stomach.

“For how long?”

“It’s uncertain. Indefinitely for now.” Héloïse doesn’t elaborate.

Marianne doesn’t hide the disappointment in her voice well. It feels especially terrible considering that they had just been laughing together moments ago.

“Oh. I see.”

There’s a long pause where Marianne and Héloïse just sort of listen to each other breathe. Marianne wishes she could see inside of Héloïse’s head and know what she’s really thinking because she’s tormenting herself wondering if this is just one-sided.

“Spend the long weekend with me,” Héloïse finally says. 

Marianne stutter steps, threatening to drop her wine glass. 

“What?”

“I have a cottage house in the countryside.” (Of course she does.) “Will you come with me?”

It’s slightly outrageous, Marianne thinks. A whole weekend? Despite everything she feels about Héloïse, she is constantly having to remind herself that she _just_ met this woman. There’s no way any good will come from this, especially when Héloïse won’t even _talk_ to her. And yet, in the same breath, the thought of being able to spend time like that with her elicits a type of excitement in Marianne that she hasn’t felt in years.

“Yes,” Marianne says, feeling her body float off the ground. “I can’t wait.”

**_iii._ **

It’s Saturday morning.

Héloïse is waiting outside of Marianne’s apartment at 8:00 AM sharp just like she had promised. She stands coolly against her car with hands in her pockets, the flyaways of her hair fluttering in the wind. She’s grinning softly as Marianne approaches. 

Marianne’s stomach flutters, unable to contain a smile of her own. Héloïse looks like a vision, the early morning sun softly kissing her skin. She’s as casual as she’s ever seen her too, in jeans, a sweater, and running shoes.

Marianne drops her bags to the sidewalk so she can lean in to give Héloïse a hug. She feels the way Héloïse nuzzles her face into the crook of her neck, the tickle of her breath causes an eruption of goosebumps that Marianne hopes goes unnoticed. And the way Héloïse’s arms wrap low and tight around her waist, pressing their bodies flush together—it’s more than just a hug, it’s an embrace. It sets Marianne’s body alight.

When they separate, Marianne can’t quite control the way her heart is beating erratically. Héloïse is just _looking_ at her. It lingers for sure, Marianne doesn’t imagine that, but she thinks she might be dreaming when Héloïse’s eyes slowly flicker down to her lips and back up.

“It’s only a weekend,” Héloïse teases when she notices all the bags Marianne has.

Marianne shrugs. Can Héloïse tell how flushed she is?

“I figured I might do some painting if I get the opportunity.”

Héloïse simply smiles and nods and helps her load her bags into the trunk.

The two hour drive is a mixture of silence and casual conversation, which is about as much as Marianne had predicted. She likes the way that Héloïse looks relaxed and in control behind the steering wheel, it makes her feel safe. 

When they do talk, they laugh and smile and Marianne realizes then just how rare that is, to see Héloïse so carefree. When it’s quiet, the low rumble of the engine and tires whizzing against the pavement does the talking for them. And every so often, when the roads seem to stretch endlessly, they sneak shy glances at each other. 

If either of them notices, neither of them says a thing.

At one point, Héloïse tells Marianne to connect her phone so they can listen to music. Marianne obliges and sets the playlist to shuffle and the first thing to come on is _The Four Seasons, Violin Concerto_ by Vivaldi. 

Héloïse perks up and Marianne is always finding new ways to be pleasantly surprised by her. Usually most people show disinterest.

“What is this?” Héloïse asks, her voice of full of intrigue. 

“A piece that I love.”

“Is it happy?”

“Not so much happy. It’s more lively.”

It plays for a moment. Marianne doesn’t even try to hide the fact that she’s watching Héloïse, studying her features and the way she reacts to each note, each beat. It’s for no other reason than Marianne just _likes_ to look at her.

“It’s about a coming storm,” she says when the music starts to grow. 

Héloïse glances at her quickly with the faintest smile. The music crescendos some more and Marianne swears that Héloïse starts driving faster.

“The insects sense it. They become agitated.”

Héloïse glances over again, this time just a beat longer and her eyes are as wide as her smile. Marianne feels the butterflies again. As her heartbeat intensifies, so does the music.

She wonders if Héloïse weren’t driving, if she’d have kissed her by now.

“Then the storm breaks with lightning and the wind.”

It ends dramatically. The next song that plays is so contrasting that Marianne has to pause the playlist altogether. She almost needs a minute to catch her breath because even though she’s heard this piece a thousand times, watching Héloïse experience it for the first time with this childlike candor leaves her breathless and captivated.

The rest of the drive goes by in a blur.

Finally, Héloïse turns them off the main road and down a bumpy dirt road. They drive through an avenue of tall green trees for about five minutes before they reach a long gravel driveway at the edge of a secluded yet wide open grassy clearing. 

“We’re here,” Héloïse says as they slowly approach the cottage. She kills the engine and Marianne hops out quick, itching to stretch out her back. 

“Wow,” she sighs, shielding her eyes from the sun. “It’s beautiful.” 

She takes a moment to relish her surroundings while the sun envelopes her in a blanket of warmth. The cottage is rustic and quaint, the walls faded yellow with bright blue shutters. The front garden is alive with all different shrubs and flowers, and without even walking to the back, there are acres of rolling hills for as far as Marianne can see. The only sounds to be heard are birds chirping, the breeze rustling through the leaves of the trees, and a distant vague babbling of a creek. 

There’s just something about someone who has as much wealth and prestige as Héloïse owning such a modest and unassuming piece of property that Marianne finds more than charming.

The inside of the cottage is neat and simple. It’s only one floor and they have everything they need, nothing more and nothing less, except for the telescope tucked away in the corner that Marianne notices almost immediately. 

Héloïse tells Marianne that there’s very limited internet and no cable, just a few local channels, and the cellphone reception is spotty unless you stand in the middle of the meadow. The local town is about a fifteen minute drive, but they’ve packed more than enough food and wine to last the weekend. Marianne is more than okay with this. In fact, this is exactly what she needed. A reason to unplug.

They spend the next hour settling in. 

Marianne wonders how the sleeping arrangement will be since there is only one bedroom with one full sized bed. Surely two adults can’t and won’t fit on it together and she feels silly for even thinking they would. Héloïse insists that Marianne take the bedroom since she is her guest, and that she will take the pullout couch.

The remainder of the afternoon is spent relaxing. Marianne finds a space to paint in the back garden where the sun is bright, while next to her Héloïse reads the copy of _Orpheus and Eurydice_ that Marianne had gifted her. Several times, Marianne can feel the heat of Héloïse’s gaze on her and each time she looks back, Héloïse quickly looks away. Everything up until now feels like a game of cat and mouse and she wonders who will break first.

Much to Marianne’s delight, Héloïse’s walls start to come down through the day. Her body language becomes more laid-back and her words are less pre-meditated. Marianne attributes it to the fact that perhaps out here, life becomes more simple. 

They are taking a walk through the meadow behind the cottage late in the afternoon when seemingly out of nowhere, Héloïse decides to open up. Before she even mutters a word, Marianne feels the change in the atmosphere. It has everything to do with the fact that she notices the way Héloïse holds her hands tightly together.

“I bought this place when the marriage started to get bad,” Héloïse says as she plucks a single flower from the ground. She nervously twists it between her fingers leaving behind yellow traces of pollen. “I had to create distance from Paolo. I told him I was visiting a sick family member for a weekend and instead came here and found this place. For almost two years I came here once a month, usually alone, sometimes with my niece Sophie. But then Paolo began to get suspicious. He thought I might be having an affair, which only made things worse. I haven’t been here in almost a year.”

The bluntness of Héloïse’s words surprises Marianne. It’s as if Héloïse had been _waiting_ to tell her. She struggles with what to say or do. She merely just looks at Héloïse, who can’t meet her gaze. 

“Does it make you sad?” Marianne asks. 

At first there is no response from Héloïse, just the sound of their feet traipsing through the tall grass and Marianne realizes what a stupid question that is. She resigns herself to the fact that that’s about as much as she’ll get out of her this weekend. 

Then Héloïse just sort of half shrugs, eyes focused on the horizon.

“Yes and no. The marriage was arranged from a young age. I had no say. The saddest part is that it took away six, almost seven years of my life. Seven years that I never consented to and had to tolerate just because when your families are wealthy, they think they can marry you off to whoever they want. I was a pawn in their business deal. It’s disgustingly archaic.”

It’s a horrible and heartbreaking thought. Marianne can’t imagine not being in control of her own fate and not being able to make her own decisions.

“It’s hard to believe that there is a part of that that _doesn’t_ make you sad,” Marianne suggests.

This time Héloïse actually looks at her. Her mouth forms into a wry smile.

“He was a good man forced into the same predicament, but I never loved him so it made leaving easy.”

The bleakness is not lost on either of them.

“You never told me why you were actually at the museum that day,” Marianne says in a feeble attempt to change the subject. She can tell it’s making Héloïse upset. This time there is no hesitation in Héloïse’s answer.

“I’ve always enjoyed art on the surface, but I fell in love with it during the divorce,” she says ever so casually. “The art museums in Milan are spectacular, as you know, but Paolo hated everything about them. It gave me an escape. I would try to go to a different one every week and I would just _walk._ Every time I would learn something new. I suppose I just wanted to feel excited again.”

Marianne finds some solace in that. She knows what it means for art to be an escape. It’s been hers many times. Even still, the overall sentiment just makes her feel sad.

“Don’t be sad,” Héloïse says, practically reading her mind. She plucks another flower, this time from a tree and hands it to Marianne. It forces a much needed laugh from the both of them. “I’m happy to have met you and that excites me. You excite me.” 

Marianne’s chest expands. The words are as sweet as Héloïse’s laugh and Marianne finds herself closing her eyes and committing the sound to memory. She wonders just how many layers Héloïse has.

They walk the rest of the way back to cottage in relative silence, only accompanied by the sounds of nature. Every now and then their shoulders and hands brush together, sparking the air around them bright with electricity.  
  


*  
  


Sleep doesn’t come easy for Marianne that night. 

She spends all too long counting the stucco on the ceiling wondering how she got here. One minute she had been mourning her father, and the next she had been whisked off to the French countryside by woman so beautiful it makes her heart ache.

Still, she doesn’t dare ask what this means to Héloïse. There’s only a wall that separates them, and yet it feels like lightyears.

She’s just about to doze off when she hears Héloïse’s voice muffled through the crack in the door. She’s instantly awake, wondering if she’d imagined it.

“Marianne? Are you asleep?”

“No. Is everything okay?”

There’s no response, other than the sound of Héloïse tossing about on the couch. Then there are footsteps softly padding closer to the door. Marianne grows with excitement. Finally, Héloïse appears in the doorway. She’s wearing an almost see through white gown which falls to the middle of her thighs. The moonlight that peeps through the blinds casts a striped shadow that slopes across her face. Her hair falls in messy waves at her shoulders and there’s something inherently intimate about the way Héloïse is looking at her that Marianne hopes she doesn’t notice the way her eyes paint her up and down.

“May I come in?” Héloïse asks.

Marianne nods, sitting up. Of course she can. She swallows hard as Héloïse steps closer, never once breaking their gaze. She then edges to one side of the bed leaving a small pocket of space for Héloïse and pulls back the covers to invite her in. Perhaps they _will_ fit.

“Is this okay?” Héloïse says slipping in and pulling the blanket up to her waist. She lets the back of her head fall gently against the headboard, but so that she can still look at Marianne.

“Yes.” Marianne manages faintly. Her words are caught in her throat. “You can’t sleep?”

“It’s quite cold out there,” Héloïse says but somehow Marianne questions the authenticity of the statement.

They shuffle around for a few moments, arms and legs brushing together, trying to get comfortable. Marianne ends up on her back, one hand behind her head and one on her stomach. Héloïse rolls onto her side, nestling right against Marianne, face to cheek. They’re so close Marianne can feel Héloïse breathing. They lay like that for a while and every time Héloïse exhales, a shiver runs down Marianne’s spine. 

Marianne entertains the idea of just rolling over and kissing her, as if that isn’t something she’d been thinking about day, but she doesn’t. Her mind races. Surely this is not normal platonic behaviour, at least not in her world.

“Héloïse?” she whispers. She doesn’t even know what she wants to say, but there is just too much unspoken between.

“Mmm?” Héloïse hums sleepily, eyes closed. 

Marianne hadn’t realized she’d already started to fall asleep and it disappoints her.

“It’s nothing. Good night.”

Marianne slowly rolls to her side turning her back towards Héloïse careful to not wake her more. She pulls the blanket up to her neck and not even twenty seconds pass before she feels the weight of the bed shift behind her and Héloïse scoot closer. Perhaps she was cold? And then moments later there’s an arm draping across her waist. Marianne’s eyes fly wide open, but she doesn’t move. She feels her toes start to tingle and then slowly the rest of her body begins to buzz. When Héloïse presses her nose into the back of Marianne’s neck, Marianne just about has an out of body experience. Eventually she allows herself relax and when she’s finally able to collect her thoughts, she decides this is much better than feeling disappointed. They can talk another time.

Underneath the blanket, Marianne finds Héloïse hand. It might be accidental brush at first, but then as if they had done it a thousand times before, their fingers lace together.

It’s then that Marianne knows that what she feels for Héloïse is profound. 

She’s _falling_ for her.

It makes the idea of having to say goodbye all the more difficult.

**_iv._ **

The unfamiliar weight of an arm slung low across Marianne’s hips is what wakes her. 

It’s followed by the awareness of the warmth that encompasses her. It only takes a second for her to realize it’s Héloïse and already she’s smiling. She savours the moment, listening to the way Héloïse breathes softly and the way it washes hot against her shoulder. She looks so peaceful. 

Marianne eventually slinks out of the bed undetected and tiptoes into kitchen, where the sunlight shimmers through the frosted window panes, reflecting off the granite counter tops. She rummages around the kitchen until she finds the coffee machine. It’s well used but covered in a thin layer of dust, an indication of just how long Héloïse hadn’t been here for. As she listens to the machine percolates and fill the cottage with the fresh scent of French vanilla, she wonders how much of last night she’d dreamt and what was actually real. 

It doesn’t matter much, the sensation of being held by Héloïse forever etched into her memory.

Several minutes later, Héloïse emerges from the bedroom. Her hair is a haphazard mess and she she has sleep lines imprinted on her face. It’s endearing and Marianne smiles.

“Good morning,” she says, pouring them both a cup of coffee.

“Good morning,” Héloïse echoes groggily with a lazy smile. She eagerly takes the mug from Marianne. “Did you sleep well?”

The be honest, Marianne hadn’t slept much. She had been too aware of the way Héloïse had been cradled around her. The thought makes her blush.

“Just fine,” she answers, her mouth curling upwards more. “You snore.”

It’s intended as a joke of course, but when Héloïse doesn’t react—her eyes suddenly cool and distant, and instead turns away—Marianne feels rocks settle in her stomach. The scent of her coffee no longer appeals to her and she’s wondering what she said wrong. 

“What would you like to to do today?” The words rush out of Marianne’s mouth as she tries to salvage the moment. “I thought we could walk to the creek?”

“I have a couple of phone calls to make,” Héloïse says as stale as ever. She leaves no time for Marianne for respond before she hastily exits the kitchen.

It leaves Marianne absolutely gutted and confused, her heart batters so hard against her ribcage she thinks she might throw up. This is the closed-off, hot and cold Héloïse that she knows, the version of her that after yesterday, Marianne had hoped they’d left in the past. 

The only thing Marianne can do is give Héloïse her space, which is a lot harder here than it is back in the city. It’s not as warm this morning but she still decides to paint outside. From where sits on the deck, she can see Héloïse out in the middle of the field on her phone. She paces in circles and every so often rubs the back of her neck in frustration. 

By noon it starts to warm up and Marianne’s stomach tells her it’s to eat. Héloïse is still in the field and Marianne wonders who she could possibly talking to for so long. Perhaps Paolo, which the thought of makes her feel sick, or her mother. Perhaps both. Marianne is in the kitchen chopping the vegetables they had packed with them when finally the back door slides open and Héloïse enters. Marianne can’t help the way she perks up and instinctively smiles at Héloïse. It’s mostly damaged control as she’s still wrapping her around what happened. 

She’s more than relieved when Héloïse smiles back, the hardness gone from her eyes, replaced with what looks like remorse.

“I’m sorry,” Héloïse says earnestly, turning off her phone and tucking it out of sight. “I shouldn’t have—I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Marianne says, setting the knife down. “I understand.” Well, she really doesn’t, but tries to anyways. She’d been hoping for more of than explanation, but doesn’t want to overstep. She’s beginning to have her doubts again about what this all is. Are they going to speak about what happened last night? Or is it just going to hang in the air between them forever; until Héloïse goes back to Milan. At this point, will it even warrant a conversation? Marianne doesn’t want to think about it.

“What are you making?” Héloïse inquires, walking forwards. She stops dangerously close to Marianne in such a way that tells them both that they’re both still thinking about last night.

Nothing even _happened._

Marianne tries to stay composed, but her eyebrows twitch. Even with her fears and doubts, Héloïse still finds ways to completely unhinge her. 

“Pasta.” They’re so close she has to whisper it and as hard as she wills herself not to, her eyes flicker down to Héloïse’s lips and then back up. Héloïse definitely notices.

“Let me help,” Héloïse says, taking the carrot out of Marianne’s hand, letting their fingers brush together.

Marianne burns again, but this time it’s laced with an undercurrent of sadness.  
  


*  
  


By dusk, they make it to the creek. The sky slowly fades to orange as the sun begins to disappear behind the horizon. Tiny clusters of stars start to dot the canvas above them. 

Héloïse always stays a couple steps ahead of Marianne with her hands tightly by her sides. It feels much different than it did yesterday. Héloïse is quiet again, her walls seemingly back up. Marianne stares at the back of her head not for any other reason than she needs something to focus on. All of her thoughts keep coming back to whether she should pursue this or not; every time she thinks she’s making some sort of progress with Héloïse, she finds out in one way or another how wrong she is. 

It’s starting to drive her crazy.

Marianne perches herself onto a large rock as she watches Héloïse skip pebbles into creek. Héloïse has been off in her own world since they left the cottage almost forty-five minutes ago and the silence that has fallen upon them starts to get uncomfortable. As the moon begins to halo the sky, Marianne remembers something her father used to tell her:

_“Freedom lies in being bold.”_

And suddenly, she can’t keep quiet anymore.  


“What are we doing?” Marianne says as calmly as she can, though the knots are forming in her stomach. 

Héloïse turns around.

“Do you want to go back?” she asks.

Marianne shakes her head.

“I mean what are _we_ doing? What is this? What does this mean?”

Héloïse blinks, holding Marianne’s gaze. Even in the night, her eyes glow fiercely and Marianne is momentarily taken back to the first time she’d ever looked into them. Héloïse’s expression is as imperceptible as ever, but Marianne knows that she knows exactly the context of the question. Héloïse stays quiet.

“Say something…” Marianne pleads.

Still, Héloïse doesn’t make a sound and Marianne can feel herself starting to tremble. How stupid of her to bring this up here and now. 

Instead, Héloïse slowly saunters forward. Each step is precise and her gaze begins to smoulder in a way that Marianne has never seen before. It forces her to her feet, her breathing becoming shallower; her body becoming warmer. Héloïse continues forward until Marianne’s back is pressed against a tree and they’re both nothing more than a whisper away from each other.

If Marianne didn’t know any better, she would swear that the earth begins to move. She wants to say something again but her voice is lost somewhere in her throat. 

“ _Helo—_ ” she barely manages because her breath hitches as soon as she feels the light press of Héloïse’s hips against of her own. And then she’s closing her eyes when Héloïse reaches a hand up and rests it softly against her face.

Héloïse strokes her thumb across her cheek and it elicits a shudder and the softest most timid moan from Marianne. The space between them sparks hot and wild. Héloïse leans in, letting her breath ghost over Marianne’s lips and somewhere in a parallel universe, a version of Marianne faints a million times over.

Finally, after Marianne silently implores her with the way her lips part, Héloïse closes the space between them and kisses her.

Time comes crashing to a halt and everything goes quiet, like those few seconds in between lightning and thunder.

Then come the fireworks.

The only thing that Marianne can focus on is the way Héloïse’s lips feel so soft and warm, the way that her hands are so commanding. And if Marianne had not been able to to breath properly before this, now she _really_ can’t breathe because _Héloïse is kissing her._

All it takes is the gentle tilt of Marianne’s head for the kiss to deepen. Marianne cups one hand around the back of Héloïse’s neck and captures her bottom lip between her teeth. Her other hand fists into the hem of her sweater and pulls her closer. Héloïse responds by brushing her tongue against Marianne’s and Marianne’s knees threaten to give out.

“Does that answer your question?” Héloïse pants when they pull apart. Her cheeks are flushed and her hands are resting against Marianne’s chest. Her eyes are darker than ever.

Marianne can’t speak, she can’t even think straight. She’s envisioned this moment more times than she cares to admit and yet none of those thoughts could ever surmount to this. The only thought she can muster is that she would definitely like the to do that again.

So she does.  
  


*  
  


The next morning they do absolutely nothing.

The sun and the birds wake them up at seven o’clock but Héloïse doesn’t let Marianne out of her confines. Their original plan was to leave early in the morning, but there is an unspoken acknowledgement between them that it can wait until later. Under the covers, their bare legs intertwine and Marianne draws pattens on Héloïse’s back with her fingertips. Her goosebumps read like braille and Marianne wants to keep reading.

When they aren’t absently touching and looking at each other, Marianne rolls Héloïse onto her back, letting her take the weight of her body. She presses lazy, sloppy kisses into her neck and over her collarbones while holding her hands above her head, relishing in the way she squirms, until Héloïse can’t take it anymore and flips them. 

Héloïse starts with her mouth at the bottom of Marianne’s ear leaving a hot trail with her tongue as she makes her way lower and lower until Marianne starts to moan and the sheets get kicked off the bed and her back arches off the mattress.

By nine o’clock, they lay breathless in bed relishing in the warmth of each other. Marianne hasn’t looked but she knows the inside of her thighs will be bruised by tomorrow.

“Come on,” Marianne says, pulling Héloïse up and out of the bed. “Let’s eat something.”

“I already did,” Héloïse smirks and Marianne knows if she doesn’t actually physically leave the room right now, she never will.

By one o’clock, they wind up on the couch watching some old black and white Spanish movie on TV that neither of them can really understand. Héloïse lays her head onto Marianne’s chest, listening to the way her heart softly beats. 

By three o’clock, Marianne finds herself outside in the garden by herself while Héloïse calls her mother. She sits herself on the stairs of the deck wrapped in a blanket letting the cool breeze ruffle through her hair. Ahead of her, she watches the birds fly from treetop to treetop. 

In this moment, she’s happy, she knows that. But she can’t fight the inevitable sadness that in just a few days, Héloïse will be back in Milan and that this might have all just been a fever dream. She’ll always have the memory of this weekend, but in the end, will it mean the same to Héloïse as it does to her? She tries to shake it off. She _knew_ this would be the outcome, but now she feels foolish for not having thought through her actions, for not having her guard up. What would her father say?

Finally Héloïse appears. She looks a bit shaken and her eyes are red as if she’d just been crying.

“What happened?” Marianne asks. “Is everything okay?”

Héloïse nods. “It’s fine. My mother can be very difficult at times. She misses me.”

Marianne doesn’t ask more, just opens her arms and allows Héloïse to enter the safety of her blanket. They sit quietly together, Marianne’s head on Héloïse’s shoulder, arms wrapped together, until the breeze becomes too cold. Somewhere in between all of that, her heart begins to break.

By five o’clock, they enjoy a glass of wine together in the kitchen. Their bags are mostly packed and they are just waiting for the right time to leave, except that neither of them really want to.

In the background, the TV is still murmuring. This time it’s the local news station. They try to tune it out but the news of the pandemic spreads fast. Even out here, in the middle of nowhere surrounded by nothing but nature, it reaches them.

Marianne panics.

She immediately regrets turning on her phone because she’s met with about a dozen emails and other news headlines that read along the lines of having to self-isolate or quarantine. 

“ _Merde,_ ” she whispers to herself, rubbing at her forehead. She sets her phone facedown on the table so she doesn’t have the look at it. She can’t even fathom what the outcome of this will be, and then she’s thinking about how much doesn’t want to be holed up alone in her tiny apartment for two weeks. 

“We should leave,” she says regretfully, standing to tidy her paintbrushes that have accumulated on the kitchen table. “You need to get back to Milan before—” The words get jumbled and caught in her throat and she can’t finish her sentence. She hates the way this makes her feel. The uncertainty scares her.

She’s is so preoccupied in her thoughts she doesn’t even notice that Héloïse has barely moved or even said a word.

Héloïse simply sets her wine glass onto the table and reaches out for Marianne’s hand. Marianne stills and looks at her.

“Or you could stay. We could stay.” Héloïse says.

Marianne looks at her confused with a furrowed brow, contrary to how Héloïse’s eyes have turned big and hopeful.

“Come again?”

“Stay,” Héloïse tells her. “With me.”

Marianne continues to look at Héloïse as if she’s lost her mind. _Stay?_ It must be the wine talking.

“I don’t—but you’re going back to Milan. I can’t—”

“I cancelled my flight. I cancelled everything.”

“You did? When?”

“What do you think all those phone calls were?”

Marianne actually starts to feel herself become annoyed, wondering if this is the sense of humour Héloïse has. How would she have known what those phone calls were when Héloïse had barely been able to acknowledge her.

“But… _why?_ ”

Héloïse stands now and pulls Marianne close, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her next words are hushed and calculated. 

“I wasn’t ready to walk away from you.”

The confession blindsides Marianne. 

It’s a quiet admission and the sincerity of it is devastating. The words hang thick in the air between them. It occurs to Marianne right then just how much in the same boat they are. She had been so consumed and tormented by her own feelings for Héloïse that she never once thought that Héloïse could be feeling the exact same way. It starts to make sense now and although Marianne might still have her doubts lingering deep in the dark parts of her mind, it’s becoming a little bit easier to breathe.

“I understand if you have obligations back in Paris,” Héloïse says when Marianne’s silence lasts too long. The dejection in her voice is unmistakable and the hopefulness falters from her face. She lets go of Marianne’s hand and takes a small step backwards. “But I know that I would miss you.”

Héloïse’s honesty continues to be unapologetic. 

The suggestion of it all is bold, even more so than Héloïse asking her to come here in the first place. But bold and honest is what Marianne had wanted and she’s learning just how forward Héloïse can be when she wants to; and if Marianne is being honest, it’s one of things she admires most about her. It challenges her, forces her to be on her toes and be present. She would have never considered herself a spontaneous person until now. 

Even still, she’s aware of how quickly things are moving. Of course she has obligations back home, more than she can count on her hands, actually. She has a job, her family, and her friends. She can’t just abandon all of that for two weeks and live a life of solitude.

Can she? She does have the ability to work remotely and she’s brought enough with her that it’s actually possible.

But also, _two weeks?_ Her father would tell her that she’s being reckless and irresponsible. 

Finally, surprised by her own confidence, Marianne finds hers words.

“I guess we should unpack then.”

Marianne has never seen Héloïse’s face light up so quickly.

**_  
v._ **

It’s the third day of their quarantine when Marianne decides to open a bottle of red wine. The breeze that flutters through the open kitchen window is warm and sticks to their skin like velvet. It’s not even noon yet but neither of them can think of a reason not to.

Maybe they’re a little bit drunk, or maybe it’s that they’re becoming more comfortable with each other, but Marianne learns just how affectionate Héloïse is. She’d never know, standing in front of the window and peering out, just how much she’d love it when Héloïse touches her neck. She feels the arms wrap around her from behind and the hot breath against her ear. Then there are fingertips lightly drawing lines against her throat. Marianne spins herself around, eager to taste the red wine that stains Héloïse’s lips.

On the fifth day, they take a trip into town together to buy more groceries. Marianne stocks up on wine, while Héloïse insists they cannot live off a diet of Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot, and makes sure they have enough actual food. On the way back, they listen to Vivaldi while they hold hands over the centre console, pulses beating softly between their palms.

By nightfall, they drag the telescope to the middle of the meadow. They take turns looking at the stars until their eyes begin to hurt, until they’d rather just lay on the blanket and stare up at the sky together. Something about how small they feel cloaked under the vast expanse of the universe makes time feel endless and Héloïse lets Marianne ask her anything she wants. 

On the seventh day, they garden together. Héloïse’s finds the flower seeds she’d tucked away last spring and they spend the afternoon with their knees in the dirt. That is, until it starts to rain. While Héloïse disappears inside quickly, Marianne doesn’t seek shelter even when it downpours and she starts to shiver; even when the thunder growls in the distance. Instead, she continues to plant the tulips, her father’s favourite flower, the flower that lines all the corners of her apartment. 

When minutes pass and Marianne still doesn’t come inside, Héloïse comes to find her. 

“What are you doing?” she shouts, running up to her. “It’s not important!”

When Marianne looks up at her, even through the wet matted hair on her face, there are unmistakable tears in her eyes and Héloïse just knows. She remembers the date. So instead of forcing her to come inside, Héloïse makes the easy decision to kneel by her side and help her plant the remaining seeds. When it’s done, Héloïse simply holds Marianne, knees buried deep into the dirt, letting her cry as the rain washes over them.

It’s not until their second last day that they have their first real argument.

Héloïse is the most quiet she’s ever been and it begins to make Marianne uneasy, as if at any second Héloïse will decide that this no longer means anything to her, because at some point, she will have to return home. Marianne doesn’t want to admit it, but her doubts are beginning to resurface.

“What’s wrong?” Marianne works up the courage to ask when she catches Héloïse staring out the bedroom window at nothing in particular. It’s raining again and the stars aren’t visible tonight.

Héloïse doesn’t say anything, just offers an indistinguishable shake of her head.

“Something’s wrong,” Marianne says again stepping into the room. She leaves the bed between as a barrier. “You’ve not said a word to me all day.”

“Just because I don’t speak doesn’t mean there is anything wrong.”

Marianne is stunned. She stutter steps backwards, her shoulder brushing into the doorframe, not expecting just how biting the tone is. At the most basic level, she knows that statement to be true, but on a deeper, more intimate level, it is not enough. She knows Héloïse better now.

“Why do you shut me out like this?” Marianne practically demands. “Are you…bored of me? Of _this?_ Is this just some fling to you? Will you go back to Milan and forget about me?” She prays for once that Héloïse doesn’t turn around and see the way the tears are welling up in her eyes, although the waver in her voice gives it away. And maybe a couple of weeks ago she’d be afraid of the answer, but she’s not anymore.

Much to her dismay, Héloïse does turn around and her eyes are already red and glossy, tears running down her cheeks. Marianne has not yet seen this type of emotion from her she hates the way it makes her feel.

“Is that the type of person you believe me to be?” Héloïse chokes out. “After all of this,” she gestures vaguely in the air, voice breaking, “you believe that you would mean so little to me that I would just—not everything is fleeting, Marianne, some feelings are deep.”

Marianne lets out an involuntary sob. She wipes the tears away from her eyes but they keep coming. She can see how hurt Héloïse is and she wishes she could take it all back. But still, she’s not yet satisfied.

“Why don’t you ever _talk_ to me? I don’t know what you think about, what makes you sad, what makes you happy, what _scares_ you.”

“You want to know what scares me?” Héloïse’s voice still trembles.

“Of course.”

“ _You_ scare me.”

Marianne’s breath catches in her throat and it feels like a sucker punch to the gut. It’s the last thing she had expected Héloïse to say and everything feels upside down.

“I scare you?” 

Héloïse nods. 

“Not conventionally. You make me feel things that I didn’t know were possible. Things that are new. That scares me.” There’s no bite this time, just vulnerability.

Marianne manages to stop crying long enough that she can finally see Héloïse without the shield of her tears. Despite this mess they’ve gotten themselves into, something shifts.

“Like what?” Marianne asks softly.

“ _Love_ ,” Héloïse says plain and simple, as if Marianne should know that.

And it’s exactly then, standing ten feet apart separated by a bed, embolden by one simple word spoken with the passion of a thousand galaxies, that Marianne feels the earth move beneath her feet again and everything starts to fall into place.

She is in love with Héloïse.

They are in love with each other.

It takes only one second for them to close the distance between them and fall into the bed.

**+++**

One year later, they’re in Marianne’s apartment. 

It’s late at night and Héloïse is sitting on the couch reading a book, feet curled up underneath her, while Marianne stands over the stove waiting for the kettle to boil. 

From where she’s standing Marianne can see Héloïse, and the sight of just how relaxed and _happy_ she looks will never get old. The frown line between her brows is practically gone and there’s a certain aura of peacefulness to her, one that took a long time to manifest. 

Marianne simply watches from afar as the kettle slowly comes to life behind her. Héloïse must feel it because she looks up and flashes her a warm smile before returning back to her book. Marianne smiles back, feeling it tug at all the corners of her heart.

As she pulls the teabags from the cupboard, she thinks about the time Héloïse had gone back to Milan for nearly a month. She thinks about how awful it had felt to be saying goodbye at the airport without knowing when she would actually return. She had questioned if they could survive the distance. But she also thinks about how incredible it had felt to learn that she was returning much sooner than either of them had thought.

“There’s nothing left here for me anymore,” Héloïse had said over the phone. “I want to come home _._ ”

Marianne will always remember that. _Home._

When she looks around, she sees all the physical parts of Héloïse’s life that have already blended with her own, like the way they share each others clothes and the way there’s a small stack of Héloïse’s favourite books in the corner of her bedroom. Perhaps Marianne’s favourite part is that Héloïse has her own key to the apartment. They had made the decision that Héloïse wouldn’t actually move in. Rather that they would find a house somewhere away from the city where they could start their own brand new chapter together.

They learn from each other every day as much as they grow with each other. Marianne knows that the love she feels for Héloïse today is much different than the love she felt for her a year ago. Because the thing is, falling in love with Héloïse had been the easy part, it was admitting that it was actually happening that was the hardest.

Now it’s simply love without qualms. No conflict, just love in its most unadulterated form.

Marianne brings the tea over and sets the mugs on the coffee table letting the steam warm the air around them. She takes a seat next to her love.

“Thank you,” Héloïse says, pressing a kiss into Marianne’s temple.

Marianne just smiles, basking in the way the clarity feels so good. That’s why what comes next is so easy.

“Marry me,” Marianne says. “I don’t mean now, but one day. Marry me.”

Héloïse shuts her book and takes a moment to look at Marianne. There’s no scrutiny in her gaze, just affection and tenderness, but most of all there’s respect. Marianne recognizes that it’s simply the look of a woman, who for the first time in her life has control over her own fate.

“Okay,” Héloïse says profoundly, as if the answer were just as easy as the question. “Yes.”

Marianne leans forward taking Héloïse’s face in her hands and kisses her soundly. In that moment, she feels all the weight of the world that she’d been harbouring fade away.

In that, she finds freedom.

**_fin._ **

**Author's Note:**

> [This Feeling - Alabama Shakes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ub6XFO0ca5Q)


End file.
